


Sweet or Somethin'

by bonmot507



Category: Fried Green Tomatoes
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonmot507/pseuds/bonmot507
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for a prompt on Fireworks 11, The FemSlash Today Porn Battle.  Fried Green Tomatoes, Idgie/Ruth, "sweet to my taste".</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sweet or Somethin'

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on Fireworks 11, The FemSlash Today Porn Battle.  Fried Green Tomatoes, Idgie/Ruth, "sweet to my taste".

Title: Sweet or Somethin'  
Fandom: Fried Green Tomatoes  
Pairing: Idgie/Ruth  
Rating: R  
Feedback: Comments, PMs, whatever. I'll take it how I can get it.  
Disclaimer: Just playin', don't sue, please?  
Notes: Written for a prompt on Fireworks 11, The FemSlash Today Porn Battle.  Fried Green Tomatoes, Idgie/Ruth, "sweet to my taste".

 

 

It never fails to amaze her, the shape of Ruth's hands, busy in dough. Bathed white in flour and kneading, rolling, flexing. There's a rhythm to it that Idgie's never quite mastered, despite her many talents. Cookin', despite all of her attempts, is just never gonna be her thing. Ruth's gotten the feel of it, it seems to come from inside her, the knowing of it, when the heat changes from good to bad, when food hits that special somethin' it does. It never fails to amaze her because Ruth never fails to amaze her. She's still struck stupid every morning by the shape of that body next to her, naked skin to naked skin, a woman made of such perfection she was too much, too good, too, too.

So she tries to show her, all the time. Its in the gifts she gives and the things she does and the words she says. Idgie knows she's not good, she just is, and there's nothing not respectable in that, so long as you know it. Idgie tries to show her in the movement of her hands over Ruth's body, that she sometimes likes to imagine is a version of Ruth with her dough. She kneads, she rolls, she flexes. She tweaks. She savors the flavor of the woman's skin, bathes her with her tongue, worshipping breasts and bones and skin and wet in a way she's never been able to feel for the Lord.

And one day, while Ruth's kneading dough, the bits of her hair dance like fireflies in the summer eve, the curve of her face illuminates in a way that just makes Idgie sure she's an angel come to Earth, her eyes alight with a happiness  
Idgie's just glad to be alive to see. She watches as a drop of sweat runs the length of that long, gorgeous neck, and she can't help but wrap her arms around her girl and run the length of its path with her tongue. Ruth squeals, quickly spinning in her arms to chastise her, her face caught between fear and excitement. “Idgie, no, I'm working,” she whispers in a way that makes both of their pulses race. Another drop of sweat, and Idgie licks it straight clean off her, and smiles lazy-like. “Have a sweet or somethin.” She whispers, quiet.

“You're sweet to my taste.” Idgie responds, catching her eye to eye. Slowly, calmly, she drops down underneath the table and lifts Ruth's skirt. She looks up with a twinkle in her eye. “Don't get caught.”

And then she's under her skirt, in her own world where all she can smell is Ruth, everywhere, and God damn if it's not the best thing she's ever known in her life. And when she dips her head to lick her from one end to the other, she can't help but think it's the best damn thing she's ever tasted. She licks up into her private channel of a place, drawing the honey textured liquid down into her mouth, gulping it down like it's a life force. Her tongue works over her inner walls, greedily licking up all of her love, her tongue reaching to savor a patch of rough skin inside that makes Ruth make noises above her that tell her it's time. She feels Ruth's hand on her head through her skirt, and she imagines her expression in the moment. The way her eyes close, not hard, but just. The way she's grippin the table in front of her, one hand full of white knuckles, her head back, neck arched slightly, and her lips movin in a silent prayer to the Lord. And when her finger grazes the spot that makes Ruth keen, she hears the prayers to the Lord start anew, vocally, audibly, and with enthusiasm.


End file.
